"But, I do wonder in 20 years if anyone will care about these old guns like we do right now. Hard to know, but I doubt it."
Shoot, Phunter, in 20 years it'll be cyborg boys hunting pheasants while jabbing at X-Box controllers, wearing Google Glasses XVII, operating an Amazon.com drone thingy that shoots lasers. The pheasants won't be real either. They'll be like that mechanical owl in the movie Clash of the Titans. Bubo.
(sidebar: speaking of owls, I hope ed is o.k. No hard feelings, right, ed. All that other stuff was payback for your little Catholic jab in one of your threads. You should know better to mess with us Catholics. For cryin' out loud, we train snipers at Church. Going to come in handy for the great Pentacostal/Catholic battle in the future. I can see it now, Brother Drew standing over me with his King James Bible on his Ipad 41 in one hand, staff of Moses in the other..."I need to know about Catholics hidin' in trees, and you need to tell me right now." Kidding Drew, just bustin' your balls a little. Been a Catholic for 50 odd years and I still sometimes shake my head leaving Church.)
I just wish which ever of you old farts is hoarding all the minty Churchill XXV's would freakin' die already and flood the market. Maybe I could get off these Chinese organ selling sites, and stop plotting how I'm going to get some kidneys to sell. I'm not selling mine. I heard there is some guy in Boston with his pants down around his ankles. He should be easy to catch, even on my bum knee. Anyways, I'll prolly just wait for Spring and shoot down to Upper Sandusky and order a semi-custom Ithaca 37. Leave the fancy shootin' iron to all you "gentlemen".
I suppose as long as future boy has his granddad, or father, and a brother/sister and maybe a cousin or two along with him, it really won't matter what he's shooting. There will be salami and bologna samiches for lunch, a bottle of Faygo Red Pop or Rock 'N Rye, some chips and a snickers. And dad can watch their eyes glaze over as he tells them stories about when he was a boy, all he had was a carbon fiber Benelli Super Sport and crappy tungsten shells. And the sun will rise, and the Earth will turn, and grandma will scream and yell as we all track mud into the kitchen.
